


Facing Fears

by LadyPoly



Category: Supernatural
Genre: BDSM, Dom/sub, Eventual Fluff, Gentle Kissing, M/M, Painplay, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-20 16:13:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13150281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyPoly/pseuds/LadyPoly
Summary: It isn’t perfect… but Sam’s found a Dom willing to work with no questions asked on his issues with Lucifer and his memories. The only catch was that Sam had to call him “King”.The next thing Sam has to learn though, is accepting when maybe something works a little too well...





	Facing Fears

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LilyAnson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilyAnson/gifts).



> This was written for a good shipper friend. I have never attempted this pairing before so I hope you enjoy it. Please let me know what you think via Facebook or here or through kudos. Perhaps with enough love I'll attempt this pairing again.  
> Merry Christmas my friend and all the readers. I wish your 2018 be full of blessings and love.
> 
>  
> 
> Dearest Readers,
> 
> It would appear that not only were several of my works copied and posted as someone else’s and that a few people I trusted have also stolen ideas, images created and scenes.
> 
> Should you compare my stories to something I have not said was inspired by a prompt, or that someone has stolen, in the comments of the story please share it with the link, or the place it was and the writer's name or username. I will do what I can to contact them on my own if I need to. Please do not engage them yourselves. If I need help, I will sound the bat signal ;)
> 
> While I have dealt with the people involved the best I can, with the help of loyal reader’s and friends, I have to ask that you please keep this in mind. In the last several weeks it has become very clear to me that the majority of fanfic writers don't understand plagiarism. Stealing ideas without crediting, borrowing quotes, etc and claiming it as your own-- plagiarism. A form of fraud. You cannot take something blow for blow, change the setting and claim that either. An homage is also not done this way, and if you believe so-- it’s still a form of plagiarism.
> 
> When you cite the fandom, the characters etc, you show that you have given credit for the idea. What the writer does next if not stating a prompt and it’s source is their own. The canon ideas are given credit, the divergent is their own.
> 
> Now sometimes similarities inspired by scenes happen, but there is no reason why a comparison of the two should be clear. There is no reason for one writer’s voice to still be evident if you were inspired by their story while claiming your own idea.
> 
> I want to say this didn’t anger me, or hurt me but it did. It infuriated me and to be honest, I didn’t know if I should continue.
> 
> If I am slower to post things now, it is only due to feeling unsure. I am very sorry.
> 
> All my love,  
> LadyPoly

Sam will never breathe this to another soul. Not even Dean. 

 

It’s a promise he intends on keeping as he walks the corridors rich with the scent of ash and brimstone. It never changes down here, not that Sam’s surprised, as some demon lackey who isn’t good at hiding his disapproval of having a Winchester he can’t murder between his borrowed hands--brings him to the staircase. 

 

Crowley’s leaning against the wall, his nod dismissing the demon as his eyes slide up and down Sam, studying him. Sam swallows. 

 

“Ready, Moose?” 

 

Sam closes his eyes, breathing in and like so many other times before, presses crescent moons into the meat of his palm. 

 

The pain reminds him why he’s here. 

 

Why he loves this and hates it, too. 

 

He walks past Crowley without a word, the torches illuminating the path towards the place that dares to unravel him everytime he finds himself descending further into Crowley’s domain. 

 

Sam’s stomach drops like a stone, rippling nausea throughout his core. Dripping fear into his being. 

 

The air is hotter here when Sam steps down into the earth and ash before him. The feeling of it and the combination of memories still causing a chill up and down his spine as he braces himself for what’s coming. 

 

Crowley’s hand is heavy on his shoulder as Sam takes it all in, the orange hues and the smell that makes his soul curl into the smallest ball of fear. 

 

Despite his size, Sam looks smaller every time the King of Hell watches this unfold. So, he waits. 

 

A growling around them begins to rise as the hounds approach from the shadows, circling, waiting. They never approach the object as Crowley watches them track the Winchester standing in their domain.

 

Crowley doesn’t blame the damned, twisted, slobbering beasts. No one likes the Cage, not even him _. _ But Sam--he gets why Sam needs to do this, why Sam asks him when it happens. 

 

Why this is  _ their little secret.  _

 

Sam closes his eyes.

 

Crowley smiles, lips curling upwards as the worn fabric of the tan coat the hunter wears slides down thick biceps to expose the plaid the King of Hell admits he secretly loves.

 

He watches as Sam’s long slender fingers take their time to undo each button, like unwrapping a gift with care, as the hunter remembers to breathe. The colors of the fabric make Sam’s eyes give the illusion of calm, of no weakness. 

 

Crowley knows better though. After all, he’s been face to face with what's really all wrapped up inside denim and cotton, what’s really hidden behind those locks of long sandy colored hair.  Sam isn’t all puppy dog eyes and sensitive words. In fact, he can be quite the opposite. Scarier than the things of nightmares when he wants to be, darker than even most of the Demons serving him now.

 

It’s a delicious thought, really, especially when Crowley knows the blood in his veins could paint Sam into one of the best, most beautiful black eyed companions out there. Sam would be even better and more dangerous than Dean was as a demon. A better Prince at the foot of his throne than Lucifer or any of the others. A worthy successor, should he ever have to give it up.

 

Sam could be the best of any of them, there was no denying that--but while the darkness was lurking inside of him, so was the light. That stubborn spirit to continue on, endure his pain. Sam could move the coldest people to feeling, emotions. Make even Lucifer’s control weak with the love his body contained.

 

Turn him into whatever it was Sam had made him now.

 

Crowley licks his lips when Sam finally removes the white shirt over his head, exposing his broad chest and shoulders, the rise and fall of his chest with both excitement and fear. The hounds are like slobbering hyenas now. Watching and vibrating. If the fabric of Crowley's suit is anything to go by near his crotch, so is he. 

 

“Look at you, _ pet. _ ..” Sam lowers his gaze, all of his large form crumbling to the red gray dirt,  head bowed and level with Crowley’s waist. “Always such a good boy for your King.” 

 

“Yes…only for my  _ King, _ ” he whispers, eyes glassy when they close as Crowley runs his fingers through Sam’s hair, exposing his high cheekbones, thumbing at his temple. 

 

Crowley tucks the strands of hair behind the hunter’s ear and clucks his tongue, “Where should we begin today, little  _ Boy Prince? _ ” Sam swallows, nuzzling into the weight of the Demon’s hand against his scalp.  

 

Before, Sam never would have considered, thought, or even entertained the idea of something like  _ this,  _ something so intimate, so exposing and heated with a Demon, especially Crowley but--the pay off, the weight of it and the  _ satisfaction _ of knowing the outcome is too good to ignore. To avoid and deny.

 

“Make it… _ hurt. _ ” 

 

Crowley purrs. He asks so sweetly.

 

With a snap of his fingers, the flames of the room encircle the cage, hell hounds at bay and blocked--Sam kneeling, naked and bound.  

 

From the shadows, the heat of red eyes can be felt around them. 

 

Crowley shivers. It feels so good as he slowly peels himself from the expensive dress coat, laying it to rest over the cold steel bars. He rolls up his sleeves, taking special care to crack his knuckles before taking inventory of the tools at his fingertips. 

 

The beads of sweat upon Sam’s lowered brow, the scent of his arousal--thick between his legs and heavy, make Crowley almost want to thank Chuck for creating such a perfect specimen. The power in the hunter’s curved legs, down his calf and even into his toes, was evident. It rippled over him, to his backside, up his curled spine and outward, into his arms and hands. Even bound, immobilized by the spells etched into the ropes weave, the sight was impressive, exquisite. 

 

No wonder Lucifer bragged of this vessel, obsessed over this man. Sam was the perfect home for an Angel looking to watch the Earth burn. 

 

_ A vessel fit for a King.  _ How ironic.

 

Crowley smiles devilishly, eyes glowing red as he growls lowly from inside his chest. Sam closes his eyes, relaxing the tension in his limbs as Crowley gets a feel for the dark red leather braids in his hand, each of them dangling in the orange glow and casting shadows across Sam’s soft skin.

 

“Why are you here, pet?” 

 

The hunter watches Crowley circle him from the corner of his eyes, tries to anticipate the blow, 

“Because I’m...broken.” 

 

Crowley teases the tips of the braids along the curve of Sam’s spine, encouraging him, comforting him, to continue, “Because I’m afraid, all of it, because of the Cage…” 

 

Crowley lets the cat o’ nine tails brush upwards over Sam’s skull, falling into his face, “And why do you need me, Little Prince?” 

 

Sam bristles. Every bodily reaction, even inside the restraints, tells Crowley that somewhere embedded into Sam will always be the instinct to never admit, submit or allow this to happen. 

 

“Because you turn my pain to pleasure, my King...show me who my Master really is,”  he whispers, voice carrying around the space around them, echoed by Crowley’s power. 

 

Crowley raises Sam’s chin, tilts his head to force the man to look up to him, to meet his gaze as his olive green eyes dance with the flames of hell. The soul within him howling at the scent of fire, brimstone and the Cage. 

 

Begging to be released from its literal PTSD.

 

“And what does your Master never require of you?”

 

“My permission, my King...you are…free to take whatever you desire.” Sam’s words are spoken with full intent, with force and truth.  

 

The whip comes down, immediately turning Sam’s skin a beautiful pink, the hunter trying not to rub his thighs against his bobbing cock at the force of the blow.

 

The feeling of knowing what those words do, will do, heightens his arousal, his desire to continue, even if the words don’t always agree with him. He knows their power, their venom. 

 

Crowley rewards him with another smack when he moans softly, each time gliding the tassel over him afterward, teasing the sting before causing another lash of pain. 

 

The minutes blur, a haze blurring the flames, dulling the roar of heat that draws perspiration onto the surface of his skin. 

 

His soul begins to quiet, its screaming fading into the background, despite his toes brushing against the flint charcoal colored bars of the cage.

 

Sam can never get enough of it, can’t embrace enough of the rush and he whimpers at its loss when Crowley stops.

 

Sam pants heavily, hair damp and sticking to his facial features, as Crowley chooses the collar. The metal gleams in the warmth of their surroundings, spiked and impossible to break for any creature. 

 

Only removable by the one who made it. 

 

It’s only one way Crowley says ‘Fuck You’, and Sam--well, Sam stills. Knows that it both causes rage and yet gives comfort for himself. It used to freak him out, but now--now it’s like a badge of honor, privilege. 

 

It fastens softly, Crowley teasing his cheek with the back of his hand before ruffling his hair. When the chain is fastened securely to the ring, Sam can practically taste the pre-come oozing from his own and Crowley's tip, both slick and slippery. 

 

With a snap of his wrist, Sam’s face and lips meet Crowley’s shoe. 

 

Through the staircases, a growling is rising. Sam practically purrs and his cock twitches like some happy puppy whose tail wags proudly.

 

“Show your Master your gratitude.”  

 

Shuddering, Sam swallows his protest, his nature and pushes onward. He knows he needs and wants this--even if the hunter in him does not. The influence of Dean, Dad and Castiel…it doesn’t matter here, not anymore.

 

Pushing it back down, Sam kisses the leather and begins nuzzling into Crowley's shin. When he begins to rise, stubble from a lack of a shave rubbing the material of the Demon’s charcoal suit that tastes of ozone and Hellfire, of nights void of the moon and stars and a little like sulphur--in every kiss up his legs, the King closes his eyes and encourages him by tightening and releasing Sam’s hair between his fingers. Both rough, and caring, conflicted.

 

Just like their arrangement, even if neither one admits it.

 

Sam whimpers, a sound so soft, from the back of his throat as Crowley twists his hair painfully at the back of his head, the hunter nuzzling at his crotch and mouthing hungrily. 

 

There is no judgement here, and Sam knows well hung when he sees it, gifted by a deal or not. 

 

“It’s not going to suck itself,” growls Crowley, and Sam’s teeth find the zipper with ease. It turns out...Sam is a man of very many talents. So many, in fact, that not even Dean knows them all. 

 

When the click of the belt finally echoes around them, Sam’s brain has never been so far from the Cage, from his tormented twisted soul, fear, from Lucifer or from Dean and Castiel in his entire life.

 

Crowley groans, a sound that stirs the hounds that stay, hoping for the flesh of Crowley’s current entertainment. Hoping to sink their teeth into his pretty little toy. Some whine like heated bitches, and Crowley bucks roughly, claiming both Sam’s mouth and the salty tears falling from his eyes as he chokes him down like a good little pet.

 

It leaves Sam’s mind blank, full of throbbing flesh, the taste of salt and ash against his tongue, the raw fire against the back of his throat as Crowley uses his mouth, fills him with purpose and a quiet that nothing else gives him.

 

He focuses on the end goal, the build and the pain. The reward he knows is coming. Crowley growls, and Sam tugs against his bindings, trembling and desperate to cause friction between his legs as they’re starting to tire and numb in their position, shoulders aching and stinging inside his muscles.

 

His teeth scrape, when Lucifer prickles into his mind--taking what he wanted, to break Sam the only way he could. And Crowley connects an open palmed slap to Sam’s face that forces him to pull off and choke.

 

Sam is dizzy, jaw aching and his ear ringing. He can’t help the grateful smile, the pain clearing his head as his cheek turns red with his owner’s handprint, glaring up at him. 

 

“Better?” Sam nods, chewing his inner cheek to keep the bite of tears at bay.

 

He doesn’t care how fucked up it or he is. He needs this to forget, to face his fear.

 

His legs are beginning to tire as he catches his breath, the sweat on his skin dripping onto the ground as he looks drenched, doused. 

 

“Please,” he whispers, “Please, my King.” Sam’s eyes fall to the ground, but there is no shame in them anymore. 

 

Crowley kneels, lips brushing against the mark he left against the fevered skin of his captive, “Please what, my sweet Little Prince?”  

 

And Sam whimpers, trying to get close enough to touch, to rub against him as he stays close, the thick, long length before him, exposed and waiting. 

 

“Claim me.” Sam’s face stays downward, but the heat, the amusement and the echo of something that will always love how wrong this is, how much it always holds up a great big middle finger at the same time it gives him satisfaction--is blissful. 

 

Sam’s face lands against the bars, hard enough to bruise. He whines like the dogs around him, gasping at the heat of Crowley's body close to his, pressing against him as he’s forced to bend over and present his puckering hole for the man turned both Master and enemy. 

 

For a split second, Sam wonders about how easily Crowley could kill him like this, use him and snap his neck like a twig.

 

A roar, something inhuman and outraged, gets the attention of the room. For a moment, it’s just Sam’s short quickened breaths, the sound of Crowley softly chuckling and the fire as it starts to flicker. 

 

“I think he heard us. What do you think?” 

 

Sam gives a soft laugh, sounding a bit tired, “I think my master ought to remind him who gets to fill my body.”

 

And fill Sam, Crowley does. It’s a slow snap of the fingers, and two probing digits before Crowley places his mouth there, drawing out the sweetest sounds in an attempt to cause deliberate blackout fits elsewhere in his domain. 

 

Red eyes glowing, he watches Sam’s body react, held up by his power, freeing his hands to roam, rub life back into his aching limbs while his cock drips in desperation, in shades of the most beautiful reds and purples. Sam’s cries, gasps and whimpers are like music to the old one’s ears.

 

Only one sound is sweeter, as he flushes himself, nestles into the crack between the firm rounded cheeks of the hunter's ass, fingers pressing into his hips. 

 

Nothing is better than the sound of Sam coming on the pleasure of his King. Crowley smiles wickedly.

 

If they were caught now, would Dean even recognize the begging mess in front of him?

If only he had known how easy it was to get along with Sam all those years ago.

 

“Who’s your King, Sammy?” 

 

Sam growls, thrashes and moans at both the want, and the anger over the use of his name. Crowley likes the bit of fight right before he breaks him.

 

“It’s Sam,” he hisses, writhing around in an attempt to regain some control, “And...only you.”

 

“That’s right,” he growls, licking his lips and petting through Sam’s hair one more time, “Only me.”

 

Crowley takes him with no mercy. The demon pushes in, Sam’s taste swirling on his tongue, like sweet honey nectar. Sam is all heat, tight like always and never disappointing. His body greedily takes the length, swallowing it up and clenching reflexively as the Hunter gasps in both pain and pleasure.

 

For Sam, the burning sensation as he hisses through his teeth is blissful. He struggles against the cuffs to adjust somehow where they scrape his skin, being grateful for Crowley and for the strength of the muscles sheathing his length, swallowing him in as deeply as possible and holding him there, wanting to be filled and filled again. 

 

Crowley roughly grabs Sam’s hair, eyes blood red, hungry as he bites down on Sam’s shoulder. Sam screams, the claim made as the pain whites his vision--the snap of Crowley’s hips starting to pound into him, harder than before, mercilessly and unforgiving. 

 

Sam sobs, sounds so broken and yet they're full of pleasure, the wall inside of him breaking free to release all he holds buried deep down at the force of Crowley thrusting inside of him. 

 

It’s freeing, a sense of ecstasy unlike anything else, as Sam’s orgasm chases every last nerve ending, filling up every empty, dark corner of his being. Behind it, the darkness he gets from Crowley, the feeling of knowing the Demon in him is reaching for Sam’s soul, suffocating it to allow for his complete submission. 

 

Sam comes hard, voice reaching the confines of Lucifer's cage while Crowley’s voice inside his head encourages him, eggs him on and reminds him he is beautiful like the blackest Ravens, that he feels better than anything in life or death as Crowley follows close behind him.

 

Lucifer’s profanities are mere whispers to them as Crowley fills Sam’s vessel, mind, body and caresses even his soul.

 

The flames become a wall of smoke, and Sam surrenders to the dark. Lucifer’s rage leaves a beautiful smile upon his lips. A voice lingers there in the shadows before he falls.

 

**_Your secret is safe with me, Sam, sweet Prince of Hell_ **

 

Sam awakens to the sound of rain slapping against a window. It’s a downpour, loud against the quiet whisper of a ticking clock.  The bed is soft, the linen clean and crisp. Red silk clings to his skin as he moves to roll over. Sam winces, pain tearing throughout his limbs and shoulder.

 

“I’m afraid not even Mother’s spells are as effective as the grace of your brother’s pet Angel and his ability to heal.”  

 

Sam groans, back cracking as he rubs his neck. Wherever Crowley bit him, it’s healed now. At least on the surface. Inside, it burns like the demon blood did, the feeling powerful and somehow comforting.

 

There’s a silence as Crowley meets Sam’s eyes from where he lays on the bed. At the end of it, each article of clothing is folded neatly, nothing of the smells from the Cage, from their lovemaking or the Hellfire remain. They never do. Sam’s cell phone sits on the nightstand. 

 

This is how it always goes. 

 

Sam sighs, running a hand through his hair, “Thanks...Crowley.”  

 

The King nods, dressed in his usual attire and gestures his hand. The tea conjured is hot, the smell of peppermint wafting into the air around them. “Drink. I’m crafty, but not a miracle worker. Can’t have you going back to Dean too out of sorts.” 

 

Sam nods, slowly raising it to his lips and cautiously sipping. It’s sweetened with honey, no milk. Crowley always remembers. Sometimes, even Dean doesn’t.  

 

The sentiment settles into his chest. 

 

They’ve done this so many times now. 

 

“Where does the Squirrel think you are?” 

 

Sam stares at the saucer in his hands, “A hunt. I’ve learned how to scramble the signal now, to use the technology to benefit me with more than just an algorithm…Dean’s smart but, without applying himself, he’ll never know.” 

 

Crowley nods, fingers tapping against the wingback leather chair where he sits cross legged. 

 

Outside, the rain seems softer, the air a bit chilled against Sam’s exposed skin but it’s nice. He wonders what region of the world he’s been whisked to this time, always a bit sad he never gets to see past glass and bedsheets. Sam wonders as the tea cools in his hands, if Crowley is capable of feeling the strange twist to what was once just revenge and a fucked up therapy session, into something more. If he feels what Sam is feeling now.

 

“Are you okay?” 

 

Sam nods, hair falling to shield his face from Crowley's lingering gaze. It isn’t a complete lie, not entirely anyways. He is okay, he always is when they’ve finished. This time though…Sam wonders if, just maybe, the words he only said to get a reaction from Lucifer hold any sentiment now. If what he had heard was real, or just a figment of imagination.

 

The bed dips, Crowley as silent as the dead and Sam finds his chin tilted upwards to gaze into deep golden green eyes, “Have dinner with me?” 

 

Sam feels caught, searching the demon’s eyes for anything to tell him it’s just another game. To kill that little spark of hope. “Why?” 

 

Crowley’s brow furrows, his eyes mirroring what Sam is feeling, and yet…he knows the answer even if he asked it anyways. “You know why.” 

 

And he does…and Sam, maybe Sam really wants to say yes despite the voices of people in his head screaming for him not to, the younger him screaming about Ruby. He clutches at the blanket, and before he can answer, the King of Hell kisses him.

 

It’s soft, that familiar hint of ash that Ruby had, but it’s not hateful, it’s not dangerous. It’s just gentle somehow. 

 

Pulling apart, Sam licks his lips and nods. But first, he’s calling Dean as Crowley explains how beautiful Paris can be after a rain shower.

  
  
  
  
  


 


End file.
